FREE USE in Primitive World

Chapter 120: Chapter 120: Something Is Wrong!

Sol waited until the chaotic wave of shouting youths had crashed through the gate before he made his move.

He simply stepped forward, his feet barely making any sound on the packed earth and slipped through the heavy wooden gates.

The transition was instant. The moment he crossed the threshold of the palisade, the cheering of the crowd faded, replaced by a sound that was far more unnerving.

Shhh-thhh-shhh.

The Savannah of Whisper-Grass.

It stretched out before him like a golden ocean, waving under the midday sun. The grass here was tall… reaching up to his chest… and the blades were serrated, edged with microscopic silica teeth that could slice exposed skin if one moved too carelessly against the grain. Even without wind, the friction of the blades rubbing together created a constant, metallic hissing sound.

Sol stopped ten paces in, letting the heavy wooden gates groan shut behind him.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath and focused on the Ash-Grey energy in his chest. It was full and swirling lazily, as always.

He opened his eyes and analyzed the flow of the hunt. He knew the layout. Lyra had drilled it into him the night before, drawing maps in the ash of the fire pit.

To the North, a safe open area, he saw the smaller, more timid participants… the ones who just wanted to survive and bring back a token kill. Of course, whether it was accepted or not was another matter, as only qualified hunt would be accepted. They were hacking their way toward the rocky outcrops where the “Horned Rabbits” and “Fire Beetles” nested. It was the so-called safe zone.

To the East, the main force was moving. He could see the trails of flattened grass where Vurok and the elites had charged. That was the “Main Stage”—the area with the highest density of medium-to-large game like the Iron-Tusk Boars and Dagger-Mouth Lizards. It was where the glory was. It was where Vurok would be expecting him to eventually show up, or where he expected Sol to die trying to reach.

But Sol didn’t go towards any of these areas, instead he turned his head to the West.

The Western Zone was different. It was darker there. The trees grew closer together, their roots tangling into knotty barricades. The undergrowth was thick with thorns and “Razor-Ferns.” It was the least visited area… not because it was empty, but because the terrain was a nightmare and the prey was scarce and skittish, which meant fewer hunters went there.

Perfect, Sol thought. No witnesses. No interference.

As for finding Vurok later on? Sol wasn’t really worried.

The hunting area, while vast to a novice, was limited by ambition. In the end, all of them would eventually converge in the Eastern Zone. It was the “Slaughterhouse,” the place with the highest density of game and the biggest trophies.

The number of kills decided who would join the Hunting Team… the elite caste who ate first, married first, and ruled the tribe. That was everyone’s goal. No one wanted to stay behind and guard the tribe while the real men brought home the glory. Vurok, desperate to prove his strength after the soup humiliation, would be right in the center of it.

“He’ll be there,” Sol whispered, adjusting the bone dagger in his belt and stepped into the West.

He didn’t hack the grass like the others. He moved with it.

He turned his shoulders, sliding through the serrated blades like a fish swimming upstream. His skin, toughened by the Vitality he had harvested from Evara, resisted the sharp edges. He felt the grass rasp against his arms, but it didn’t cut.

He picked up the pace.

He began to sprint. Not a desperate dash, but a controlled, rhythmic lope. He wanted to test his new engine.

Speed test, he noted.

He pushed off his back foot. The ground blurred. He was moving faster than he ever could have in his old world, and infinitely faster than the cripple Sol. His lungs expanded, pulling in the hot, dry air without burning. His legs felt like hydraulic pistons.

He covered a mile in minutes, leaving the noise of the main hunt far behind. The shouting of Vurok and the others faded into the background hiss of the savannah.

He reached a cluster of trees that marked the true beginning of the Western Zone. It instantly transitioned… from the bright morning sun to the heavy, emerald twilight of the canopy. The air temperature also dropped, and the humidity spiked, wrapping around him like an uncomfortable wet blanket.

Sol didn’t slow down. He vaulted a mossy root system that was waist-high. The Vitality he had absorbed from Evara was like a second heart beating in his chest, fueling his muscles, making him lighter, faster, stronger.

He moved through the Western Zone for twenty minutes, his senses expanding outward in a spherical radar. He heard the scuttle of insects, the drip of condensation, the wind in the upper branches.

No people, he confirmed. Just me and the… wild.

This was the sole reason he had selected this place instead of the easier north and eastern zone, as he wanted to truly test himself, to get used to the environment and overall vibe and more importantly, he needed to know exactly what this new body could do before he engaged a human target.

From there on, he didn’t stride; he crept. He kept his knees bent, his weight low, his spear held in a white-knuckled grip. His senses were dialed up to the maximum, expanding outward like an invisible net.

He knew he wasn’t a god here. He was a bottom-feeder in an ecosystem of titans.

“Constant vigilance,” he breathed, the mantra repeating in his head.

He scanned the path ahead. He avoided the bright, inviting flowers. He skirted around the patches of deep, soft moss that could hide pitfalls. He checked his left. He checked his right.

Suddenly he noticed that the sound of insects had vanished and from his previous encounters, he knew that it was anything but a good sign, so he became even more vigilant. His senses screamed a warning. Something is wrong.

Suddenly he noticed an odd looking shadow in front of him.